


solid ground

by aosc



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Chinese Grand Prix 2016, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6581482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian grunts, and tugs at the ends of his hair, wet, sweat sliding down past his collar. "If your hands are quicker than your mind, that doesn't make your team good. That makes <i>you</i> dangerous."</p><p>They climb the stairs, and Sebastian quietens, sees how the victory hums beneath Nico's skin. He's amicable, smiling, tilting his head and saying that <i>ja, that's not too good, Seb</i>, but he's not really with him. Sebastian gets it, knows the thrum of victory, the rush of epinephrine, of dopamine, the high that comes after. He got it for three years, and the body might not remember sensation, but he remembers the way the brain operates around three wins in a row.</p>
            </blockquote>





	solid ground

* * *

 

Sebastian clenches his jaw, steadies himself on the left front wheel and walks with the car into the pit, patting it absently where the flap of tarp's already been pulled over the frayed rubber surface. His hood's hooked around his neck, exhaustion already creeping into his shoulders and back, legs quaking with stepping forward.

 

"Seb," Mattia says, coming up behind him, an arm sliding around his neck, far hand squeezing his right shoulder, "You did good. Now go."

 

Sebastian nods, still terse, still a wire of tension, bleeding, bleeding out of his posture. "We could have won," he mutters, and pulls a palm over his jaw, rubbing a patch of red into the bone.

 

Mattia gives him a small push forward. "If not for the _Toro Rosso,_ but that is not on you, that is on them," he says.

 

Nico comes half skipping out of the maw opening into the Mercedes pit as Sebastian turns into the corridor, winding up from the track and into the stairs up to the podium. He raises his chin towards Sebastian, and shoulders up beside him, putting a hand in the lower run of his back. "Good race?" he asks, because of course - Mercedes is having a fucking laugh, recently.

 

Sebastian shrugs. " _Verdammt_ ," he mutters, "Fucking awful start. That Russian they've put in the Red Bull is crazy."

 

Nico slants half a smile. "Really? I don't know, he's quick, anyway," he says. "And Daniel nearly had me, they - Red Bull, are dangerous again, I think. They are good now, with a good car."

 

Sebastian grunts, and tugs at the ends of his hair, wet, sweat sliding down past his collar. "If your hands are quicker than your mind, that doesn't make your team good. That makes _you_ dangerous."

 

They climb the stairs, and Sebastian quietens, sees how the victory hums beneath Nico's skin. He's amicable, smiling, tilting his head and saying that _ja, that's not too good, Seb_ , but he's not really with him. Sebastian gets it, knows the thrum of victory, the rush of epinephrine, of dopamine, the high that comes after. He got it for three years, and the body might not remember sensation, but he remembers the way the brain operates around three wins in a row.

 

"Anyway," he says, because Kvyat is already there, unzipping his overall, navy purple and its Red Bull insignia, how long he wore that slapped onto his back - and he's not about to launch into another tirade. "Good race, man, congrats." He slaps Nico's shoulder, curling his fingers briefly into Nico's overall. Nico smiles.

 

He takes three hasty, deep breaths, and deftly ignores the camera sweeping up from behind the bend in the wall. Nico laughs, and waves it towards himself, fingers grabbing for the mouth of the lens. Sebastian unzips the overall, reaching for the first of the bottles of water they have put up in rows for them.

 

"Hey, what happened at the start?"

 

He twitches. There's something about the young drivers who want to stick their necks out, walk a little on that side of racing, who always manage to grate like low number sand paper on him. He knows he was that guy, once, but he's twenty eight, nine years of Formula One sticking to his bones like sticky tar, a fly trap of experience. He bites his lip, measures his breathing -

 

" _You_ \- asking what happened at the start? If I don't go left, _you_ crash into us, and _the_ _three_ of us go out."

 

Kvyat rubs a towel down his neck, looking wide eyed, unapologetic, "Well - " he begins.

 

"Well?" Sebastian spits, "No - no well, you came like a torpedo - "

 

"But that's racing," Kvyat says, and reaches for Sebastian, half an uncertain laugh, a little jittery, hanging between them. Sebastian takes a step back, licking at the split in his lip, shoulders - shaking, "That's racing," he enunciates, "But if I keep going - then we crash."

 

"But I didn't," Kvyat says.

 

" _You_ didn't," Sebastian replies, acrid on his tongue, irritation scraping in his gut.

 

There is something about being that young, that reckless. Sebastian shakes his head. "You have to expect - when you attack like you're crazy, you will damage a car. You were lucky this time."

 

The Red Bull youngster shrugs his shoulders in a manner that suggests, _what are you going to do_ , says "I am on the podium - you are on the podium, it's okay," and decides that _well, that's that, ladies, gentlemen_. Sebastian has no room for it, anger tepid, burnished, fading, but still there. He shakes his head, moving more like a tick of bursting annoyance, repeating the sentiment over and over. Nico catches his eye when he brushes past, hurried by a manager who tells them simultaneously that it's time.

 

The podium is the podium is the podium. He decidedly turns as soon as Kvyat, who is still high from standing there, before thousands upon thousands of fans, the tall bottle of champagne in his hands, comes towards him. The cold spray hits his neck, hard bursts and sticky trails. He sprays Nico instead, and that's normal - Nico, who laughs, and doubles the effort right back. Sebastian takes a hefty swig from his own bottle, coughing a little on the ferment and carbonation, but finally lets it settle slightly into his bones. Second, sixteen points, _comeback_.

 

Kvyat has gone forward to the railing, hanging out slightly over it, waving, wide smile. Sebastian snorts. "Jesus, kid," he mutters. He elbows Nico in the side, and dumps some more champagne over the fan of his branded hat. Nico saws his bottle into Sebastian's hip. "Don't be the buzzkill, Seb," Nico says, tilting his head.

 

"Don't try so much to be the voice of reason, old man," Sebastian shoots back, and takes another swig of champagne, swelling down his throat, bubbling and fizzing in his mouth.

 

Nico says, "Kimi was mad for a split second, then he forgot all about it, because that is how the Finns deal with things, no? Don't hold a grudge, he was too quick in trying to do what you tried to do to Kimi; it happens. You are here, nobody got hurt, that's _good_."

 

"I did it when there was no one there - especially not coming like a madman at top speed trying to saw through the corner - " Sebastian protests, beginning to work himself into a rant again. He stops when he sees Nico's full tilt of amused expression. "Fine," he mutters, "Okay, yes, fine."

 

"There's the next race, and the race after that, Seb - worse things have happened, and other - good things, will happen," Nico says, and pulls Sebastian to himself, pressing a half way hug into his waist before he steps clear of him, members of their backstage managerial crew beginning to swarm around them with mics, earbuds, taking away the champagne and clearing the stage for the post-race interviews.

 

There is the next race, and the next race. Sebastian pulls a deep breath clear of his swimming emotions, exhaustion like palpable air on him, and grasps the mic handed to him. Nico blinks in passing, nudging at his hip as he steps past, towards the cameras, toward Kai Ebel and the hushed murmur of the crowd, toward the victory that sticks on your skin and grasps, claw fingered, at your lungs. He remembers, knows, that he could've had a real shot at it -

 

But then there is the next race, and the next, and the things that come after those have passed.

 

*


End file.
